


Santa Baby

by genteelrebel



Series: Adam and Joe [6]
Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Boot Worship, Christmas, Christmas Smut, Costumes, Domination/submission, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Holidays, Language, Love, M/M, Rimming, Santa!kink, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-08 22:19:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5515391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/genteelrebel/pseuds/genteelrebel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Methos has a Santa Clause fetish.  Over the years, Joe has lovingly learned exactly how to make the most of this.</p><p>Part of the Adam and Joe universe.  You probably need to have read at least "Adam and Joe" and "The House of the Novelty T-shirts" for this one to make any sense. :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Santa Baby

“’Gonna wear a Santa Hat for me later?’”  
‘Only if you’re very, very good,’ Joe purred.”  
\--House of the Novelty T-Shirts

 

Methos had a Santa Claus fetish. Joe had discovered this quite by accident just before the dawn of the most recent millennium, when he’d been roped into playing the jolly holiday figure at the London Watcher’s Christmas Party. All evening long, while Joe welcomed a seemingly endless stream of Watcher rugrats onto his knee, he had been aware of Methos looking at him—although ‘looking’ was really an inadequate word. The old Immortal kept staring at Joe with an intensity that Joe could *feel*, despite the large crowd of tattoo-wearers milling in between them. When Joe, smiling at the camera with an adorable 4 year old girl on his knee, happened to glance over and see Methos subtly rearranging his suit jacket to cover the bulge in his dress slacks, Joe hastily arranged for a ten minute break. He went to confront his lover, cornering him in a dark alcove not far from the punch table. “All right, you,” he said, pitching his voice low. “Exactly how many glasses of eggnog have you had?”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. How many have you had?”

Methos, baffled, raised the perfectly innocent mug of spiced apple cider that he’d taken from the kiddie’s refreshment table. Joe sniffed at it suspiciously, but could detect no alcohol. “Okay, okay,” he admitted. “But you must have had something. From the dessert tray, maybe? Ten years ago in Paris Jake Bender spiked the Christmas cookies with marijuana. It wouldn’t surprise me if someone tried it again.”

“Here? At a family party? With all these kids around?” Methos inquired. Joe frowned, conceding that it wasn’t likely. Methos cocked his head. “Joe, what makes you so sure that I’m intoxicated?”

“Simple.” Joe lowered his voice still further, let it become a soft growl. “You don’t usually spend Watcher social functions eyeing me like you’ve been starving for a decade and I’m a three course meal. Nor do you usually get so worked up by holiday parties in general that you need to spend the evening holding your jacket in front of your pants. So what’s going on?”

“Oh.” Methos looked embarrassed. He carefully rearranged his body into a more relaxed pose, looking out nonchalantly across the room as he raised the cider mug to his lips. To any observer, the two of them could have been discussing the weather. “It’s not the eggnog, Joe,” Methos said in an undertone. “It’s you.”

“Me?”

“I’ve never seen you dressed as Santa Claus before.”

“Yeah, I know, but…” Joe was startled. He looked at his lover in disbelief. “You have some kind of holiday costume fixation I should know about?”

“Oh, yes.” Methos’s cheeks turned bright pink, but he nodded emphatically. “It’s the whole Santa package, Joe. The color and fabric of the costume—that deep red against white, the textures of velvet and fur. The laughter. The generosity. The power.” He returned his gaze to Joe, a tender look in his hazel eyes. “Besides. I’ve spent the last three years having my every sexual desire attended to by another kind hearted, bearded man. Is it any wonder that some of my appreciation has slopped over?”

“No, but—“ For a second, surprise was all Joe could feel. Then the love in Methos’s eyes registered. The love *and* the desire. “You really do want me like this, don’t you,” he said. Methos nodded. Joe took a deep breath. “Should I arrange to keep the costume for another day?”

“Only if you want to, Joe.” Methos sounded resolute. “If it’s too silly for you, or you just don’t want…”

“No.” Joe was thoughtful. “I think I can honestly say that I do want.” New ideas were exploding in his mind—ideas he’d never honestly considered before, but which brought a surge of heat nonetheless. Generosity and power, yes. What would it be like to be that generous to Methos, to truly give him everything he desired? He shook the mental images away and refocused on his lover. “So what *do* you want for Christmas, little boy? You’re a bit too big to fit on my lap, but…”

Methos’s voice was so quiet Joe almost didn’t hear him. “I’d rather lick your boots.” And before Joe could really register the words Methos had disappeared, launching himself into the crowd. He attached himself to a group of fellow researchers, chattering away as gaily as if his conversation with Joe had never taken place.

The abrupt retreat startled Joe almost as much as the parting words. Methos rarely avoided uncomfortable conversations these days. For Methos to run from him now meant that Joe had unknowingly touched on something very deep. He watched his lover thoughtfully as Methos chatted and mingled, and even after Joe had returned to his child-related Santa duties, his mind kept going back to the way their conversation had ended. “I’d rather lick your boots.” It had been said so quietly, with so much sadness and lack of hope, as if Methos had been convinced Joe would reject the suggestion out of hand. Did Methos really want…? And why was he so sure Joe wouldn’t…?

So after they got home from the party Joe kissed his lover and went into their flat’s bathroom to shower, after which he laboriously re-dressed himself in the Santa costume. He re-strapped the heavy stomach pillow into place and carefully cleaned the patent leather boots before limping out to find Methos, who was prosaically washing dishes in their flat’s tiny kitchen. The old Immortal’s eyes went wide when he saw him, having reasonably expected Joe to surface in his old robe and pajamas. “Oh, Joe,” he breathed, for a moment all happiness and pleased surprise. Then a shadow crossed his face. “Thank you. I shouldn’t have said—this means a lot to me, Joe. But you’re tired, and that cheap fake fur has got to be itching you like crazy. If you just want to go to bed…”

“I do. Eventually,” Joe said with his very best leer. Methos actually flushed, another reaction that had become very, very rare. “Come here,” Joe said, and Methos did, drying his hands before he shyly crossed the linoleum to Joe, tentatively reaching down to caress Joe’s padded belly. “Kiss me,” Joe said, and when Methos leaned in to brush his lips Joe pulled away, heart pounding as he mentally crossed his fingers and prayed he’d guessed right. “Not there. Lower down.”

“Joe?”

“The name’s Santa, baby. I’m here to give all the good boys and girls exactly what they want for Christmas. And you’ve been very, very good…I can attest to that personally. So.” Joe nodded at the floor and the shiny boot he could just barely see past his be-pillowed middle. “Down you go. Lick my boots.”

And Methos gave him one hungry, incredulous look and sank to his knees…

***

That had been more almost seven years ago, now, and in the intervening time Joe had learned many things. He’d learned that Methos did indeed find the colors of scarlet and white to be incredibly erotic—“blood in the snow colors”, he called them—the combination stirring memories of ancient winter sacrifices and the intense orgies that had followed them, back in the days when the gods still had to be bribed to bring back the solstice sun. He’d learned that, to a man born before the advent of plentiful food, a large pot belly that could be patted and stroked and held onto while its owner was fucked from behind could be a very sexy thing…a discovery that made Joe feel immensely better about his own slowly rounding middle. He’d learned that a beard was an essential part of the erotic Santa Clause persona, but that his own short gray whiskers would serve better than any fake—a stroke of luck for them both, as Joe found even the most expensive faux beard to be itchy beyond imagining, and Methos didn’t like it when he couldn’t see Joe’s face. He’d learned that there were all kinds of ways to be generous, that laughter really was an aphrodisiac, and that the best presents really did do much more for the giver than the receiver.

And he’d learned that, once a year at least, Methos needed to completely surrender control.

This had startled him, at first. That first night in London, when Methos’s lips had brushed Joe’s boot tops and he’d felt the first jolt of electricity go through his body as if the feet beneath them were still real, he’d had no idea what he’d unwittingly uncovered. And why would he? After all, their lovemaking had been extremely satisfying for years without delving into any of the more… exotic… aspects of human sexuality. No bondage, no sex toys, no roleplaying of any kind--they’d never even once pretended they were strangers seducing each other in a bar, which Joe understood from years of Watcher Poker Night guy talk was pretty much a married couple’s standard. Actually, the kinkiest thing they’d ever done was to occasionally rent some mainstream girly porn. Joe still had a minor thing for the busty blonde starlets that reminded him of the Playboy centerfolds he’d ogled as a teen, and Methos had a minor thing for slender brunettes with perky nipples. So once in a blue moon they’d rent a tape that featured some of each and watch it together on the living room couch. 

The next morning Joe would usually feel a little guilty about the whole thing, but that just added its own spice. Methos would always tease him mercilessly that he could walk into the adult video store to *rent* the movies but somehow got too shy to *return* them. To which Joe would reply that when he rented them he was just your average middle-aged horny guy, no different from any other middle-aged horny guy who frequented such shops. But when he *returned* the tapes, he was a middle-aged horny guy who’d spent the previous evening coming like gangbusters while his 5,000 year old lover stroked his cock for him and whispered a creatively filthy film commentary in his ears…and his decades-old Catholic upbringing still made him convinced that the entire world could read it on his face. To which Methos would always snort and reply that if he worked at it, he could give the world a *much* more interesting story to read on Joe’s face than the simple fact of them masturbating together to porn, to which Joe would say “Yeah? Sounds like an empty boast to me, my friend. I think you’re going to have to prove it to me.” To which Methos would…well. 

No, Joe could hardly say he’d spent the last few years of their relationship unsatisfied.

But this was satisfying in a whole different way. It was as if the simple act of pressing his lips to Joe’s boot tops opened some kind of doorway in Methos’s mind and heart, leaving him completely open, completely naked in a way that still managed to take Joe’s breath away. It wasn’t just about letting Joe take the lead. It was about letting Joe take *everything*, pouring his entire soul along with his body into Joe’s capable hands. And that was a rush like nothing Joe had ever felt before. 

Perhaps it was silly, dressing up in a Santa Costume in order to experience it. Joe certainly *felt* silly sometimes, when he got his first glimpse of himself in the bedroom mirror. But in his heart he knew it was that very silliness that made the rest of it feel safe. And dressing it in holiday trappings, knowing that it was something that only happened once a year, helped too. Joe wasn’t sure he could have handled that kind of intensity any more often. Some things are just too much to experience every day. 

But once a year, it was something they both needed. And so, when the days started growing short and the sound of holiday music filled the air, Joe made sure they got it.

***

**_~Las Cruces, New Mexico. Late November, 2006.~_ **

Joe had awakened that morning with the sudden, panicky knowledge that their first-ever Thanksgiving in their new home—the first Thanksgiving of their new *lives*-- was just a handful of days away. As a result, he and Methos spent the entire morning hauling boxes out of the basement and attic, unpacking the fancy china and holiday decorations from their former lives. It was a rewarding experience, on the whole, but also one that was very bittersweet. The holidays were supposed to be a time of connecting with the people you loved, after all. Seeing all the things their old friends had given them over the years had painfully reminded Joe of just how much he and Methos had given up when they started over, and how isolated they still were, how alone. He’d almost been on the verge of asking Methos to put all the boxes away again, and leave the decorating for another day…

But then Milly had popped her head through the door, bringing all her brightness and beauty and innocent pride in her latest spelling test triumph, and Joe’s heart had gone from total melancholy to total joy in less than thirty seconds. There is nothing in the world as much fun as decorating a Christmas tree with a small child. When Methos finally turned off the living room lights and let the tree shine out in all its brightly lit glory, the wide-eyed look of wonder on Milly’s face made the entire world seem beautiful. By the time Milly had gone home, hands full of homemade paper chains and tummy full of candy cane cocoa made to Joe’s grandmother’s specifications, both Methos and Joe were relaxed and happy. They’d stood at their kitchen window with their arms around each other, watching Milly run home through the twilight with her colorful garlands streaming out behind her like a flag, and neither man had needed to so much as a glance in the other’s direction to know what was in his heart. But once Margareta had let Milly in, and the weathered Alfonso kitchen door had slammed shut behind her, Methos had spoken. “We’ve let her get too close, Jobey,” he said softly.

“What?” After the happy evening they’d just shared, the words were a shock. Joe stared at his beloved in disbelief. “How can you say that?”

“Think about it, Jobey,” Methos answered. “She’s become a huge part of our lives. If you discount the hours she spends in bed asleep, she actually spends more time with the two of us than she does with her own family. She shouldn’t be helping us decorate for Christmas. And we certainly shouldn’t be the first ones she runs to when she needs to show off how well she’s done on a spelling test. That’s Gabriella’s or Margaretta’s privilege.” Methos shook his head. “I’m worried that she’s starting to count on us too much.”

A thousand defensive thoughts started flying through Joe’s brain. Mostly, they centered on how the seven-year-old Milly desperately needed *someone* to count on—and how, hard as they both tried, neither her mother not her grandmother could be that person for her. Gabriella worked too many hours to do more than provide for Milly’s physical needs. And Margareta was simply too old and sick to give a young child all the care she needed. But Methos already knew all that, probably better than Joe did himself. The old Immortal had very sharp eyes. And while it was subtle, so subtle that Joe doubted anyone else in the world would have noticed, there was always a certain polite reserve to Methos’s interactions with Gabriella that made Joe wonder if he was seeing something negative in the young woman, something Joe had missed. “Well, we can be counted on,” Joe said slowly. “Can’t we?”

Methos refused to meet his eyes. “Did you never think to ask MacLeod why he and Tessa never had children, Jobey?”

Joe blinked. “Well, no. I didn’t. I just assumed…I mean, we all know Mac couldn’t have kids of his own…” 

He knew even before he saw Methos’s carefully lifted eyebrow that that answer wasn’t good enough. A hundred years ago, male infertility might have been enough reason not to start a family. But by the 1980’s both science and society could have provided many opportunities for Mac and Tessa to raise a child if they’d wanted to. Adoption. Foster care. Even artificial insemination, although—Joe had to stifle an irreverent smile—it was very hard to imagine just how the proud, macho, circa-1985 Highlander would have even begun to approach telling an infertility specialist that he needed to find a sperm donor. Still. Even if Mac had found the whole process embarrassing beyond words, it would have been a temporary pain. More than worth it, to give him and Tessa something they both really wanted.

Which led Joe to the next obvious conclusion: that Tessa hadn’t wanted kids. But again, even as the thought crossed his mind, Joe knew it wasn’t right. There had been plenty of moments when a careful Watcher could see signs that Tessa wasn’t completely happy, times when she had lingered a little too long outside a baby store’s windows, or looked a little too wistfully at other people’s children playing in the park. Now that Methos had brought the matter up, Joe would have bet money that remaining childless was entirely Mac’s idea. And *that* meant, given the way Mac had cared for Richie and seemed to love kids in general, that it wasn’t simply a love of the fancy-free, childless lifestyle that had kept the couple from becoming parents. “The Game,” Joe said with a sigh, and instantly read the confirmation in Methos’s eyes. “But, Alex…”

“Every mortal an Immortal loves gets drawn into it sooner or later, Jobey,” Methos said softly. “When it’s a lover or a friend, then at least that mortal is an adult. He or she can weigh the risks and make their own decisions about the danger.” He looked sadly at the Alphonso’s kitchen door. “But when it’s a child…” 

Methos left the rest of the thought unspoken, and Joe suddenly knew what was haunting his beloved so. In 1572, Methos had married an Italian farmer’s widow named Giulia, and adopted her four-year-old son Carlo as his own. He’d come home just a few years later to find them both dead, brutally murdered by an Immortal trying to force Methos into a Challenge. To Joe’s knowledge, that was the last time Methos had let any child get close to him. Milly’s presence had to be setting off all kinds of alarm bells in his beloved’s heart. “It’s different now,” Joe said firmly. “We’re safe here.”

“Are we?”

“As safe as we can be,” Joe corrected, determinedly ignoring his lover’s irritating habit of asking questions when he really should be making statements instead. “Our deaths in Portugal were believed. Besides me and you, only five people in the entire world have any idea that you’re not really Dr. Alex Porter, mortal linguistics professor. And you haven’t felt so much as a single Immortal Presence since we moved in. There doesn’t seem to be another Immortal in the entire city of Las Cruces. If you do fight any Challenges here before Milly gets old enough to go to college, the odds are good that it will be against someone who is just passing through and happens to sense your Immortality, not someone with a vendetta against you personally. And even if we do have extraordinarily bad luck and someone from your past comes to town, someone insane enough to use a child as a bargaining chip…”

“Bad luck, Jobey?” Methos’s eyes flashed brilliantly. “You mean the kind of luck that brought Kronos back into my life? Or Morgan Walker?”

Joe shivered. “Well, I kinda figure the laws of probability owe us a break after those two,” he said. “But yeah. Even if. There are two of us here to protect Milly now, not just you.” Methos nodded, but the tense set of his shoulders told Joe he remained unconvinced. Joe sighed. “Okay,” he said quietly. “You’re right. Knowing us *is* a risk. But we’re doing everything we can to lessen it—we already were. Keeping the two of us safe from the Game will keep Milly safe from it, too. And right now, we can give her things nobody else in her life can. I think that makes the risk worthwhile. Don’t you?”

Methos nodded, reluctantly but sincerely, and there the conversation rested. Methos went into his study to prepare some work for school, and Joe started puttering around the house, putting away all the holiday boxes and wrappings. He still believed he was right. Knowing them *was* good for Milly, and all the good they could do her far outweighed any possible risk. Still, Methos’s fears had unnerved him more than he wanted to admit. Joe started making plans in his head, things ranging from the simple—like making sure Milly knew how to call 911, and could find her own way to holy ground in an emergency--to the more complex, like figuring out how to finance her college education if something should happen to them before she graduated from high school. Joe even started wondering whether it was time to get his trusty old handgun out of their basement safe and start carrying it in his shoulder holster again. He always had in Paris, and in London, too, but so far life in Las Cruces had been so calm that he’d gotten out of the habit. Maybe it was time to reacquire it.

On the whole, by the time the dinner hour rolled around—they tended to eat early if the Sprout was eating with them, later if they were on their own--Joe was emotionally exhausted, and more than ready for a change of mood. When he went into the bedroom and tripped over the large cardboard box lying in wait just behind the door, he spent several moments loudly cursing the idiot who had left it there. Then he got a better look, and grinned. The idiot had been him, of course. And maybe it hadn’t been idiocy after all, but brilliance. Joe righted the box, taking a moment to finger the crimson material within, then limped to Methos’s study and stuck his head through the door. “Alex?”

“Yes, Jobey?”

“I’m too tired to cook. Want to be a model husband and go get us some Chinese takeout for dinner?”

“Just a second…” 

Methos typed away on his computer for a few seconds, finishing a sentence. Joe walked in and snuck a look over his shoulder. “An Exploration of the True Origins and Migration of the Cyrillic Alphabet”—hmmm. Joe touched Methos’s arm gently and nodded at the screen. “You’re sure this is wise?” he said. “Dr. Porter’s kinda young to be doing research of this caliber.”

“Fortunately, Dr. Porter is a genius,” Methos answered. “It says so, right in his file. I made sure of it. But you’re right, of course. He really is far too young for this kind of work. I won’t try to publish this paper for another few years at least. I was mostly just…” He sighed.

“Yeah. Yeah, I know.” Joe didn’t have to say what he knew. They were both aware that Methos only started writing long, scholarly papers about the past when he wanted to stop himself from worrying too much about the future. “Go get the Chinese food. It’ll make you feel better.”

Methos looked skeptical. “Does fried rice have some kind of miraculous mental health benefits I’m not aware of, Jobey?”

“Not exactly,” Joe answered. “But trust me, having a well-fed husband definitely does. Go on. Get.”

Methos ‘got’ with remarkably little argument, although the sadness that lingered in his eyes as he went out the door almost made Joe regret the ruse. If all went according to plan, neither he nor Methos would so much as look at the food Methos brought. But then again—if all went according to plan—Methos would be far too distracted to be upset about being sent on a fool’s errand. Joe put away the rest of his doubts and went into the bedroom to change. 

He was, by now, very well practiced at slipping into the awkward costume. He couldn’t help feeling a strong thrill of excitement as he did, letting the heavy coat settle around his frame like a cloak, feeling the softness of the velvet brush against his palms. Then he took a good long look at himself in the mirror. He’d learned early on that if one’s lover had a fetish, then one should use it mercilessly to appeal to every single one of his senses--and the sense of sight came first. Joe combed his hair, trimmed his beard, and made sure that his belly-pillow was arranged just so. Then he went to arrange the living room, drawing the curtains and pulling their heaviest, most comfortable armchair under the brightest of the living room lights, exactly halfway between the Christmas tree and the old gas fireplace. The moment Joe heard Methos’s car pull into the drive, he enthroned himself upon the chair like a veritable King of Winter Wonderland. He faced the archway that connected the living room to their front hall with a keen feeling of anticipation, waiting for his beloved to let himself in.

It took a while. Methos, graceful as he was with almost every other aspect of modern life, could still be surprisingly clumsy when it came to handling keys, and today he was encumbered by an armful of Chinese take-out as well. He stumbled through the door in an amazing tornado of long black coat and small white cartons, somehow managing to keep all the food precariously balanced in his arms while he patted down his coat pockets in search of his keys. Joe listened, grinning, as Methos began irritably lecturing the door and walls—his main thesis seemed to be that it was perfectly ridiculous for an advanced society, one that had managed both manned spaceflight and the invention of the iPod, to still rely on inconvenient bits of machined metal to lock its doors—only to turn around and realize that he’d actually left the keys in the lock, not his pockets. By the time Methos had gotten everything sorted out—door closed and locked, keys in the tray next to the change jar on the foyer table, food cartons once again securely upright in his arms—Joe was ready for him. He smiled and made a show of stretching languorously in his chair, being sure to show off the rich red velvet of his sleeves and the ripe, round curve of his padded abdomen. “Welcome home,” he purred.

And watched, astonished, as Methos turned into stone.

It was really quite impressive. First Methos stopped in abruptly in mid-step, eyes as wide as if Joe had suddenly developed a second head; his arms clutched the Chinese food dangerously tight, and his feet froze to the floor as completely as if he’d suddenly developed roots. Then all the color seemed to drain from his face, and he swayed dangerously, like a sawn-through tree just about to fall. The much-abused Moo-Shoo Pork might have ended up on the floor after all, if Joe hadn’t jumped up quickly and grabbed the containers. He sat them down next to Methos’s keys, then rushed back to steady his still-swaying beloved, hurriedly guiding him to their living room couch. “Whoa. Easy there,” he said, when he had Methos safely seated upon it. “Take a few deep breaths.” Methos did as he was told, shakily at first and then more steadily with each minute that passed. Eventually, the color started coming back into his cheeks. “There, that’s better,” Joe said approvingly. “You’re starting to look less like a ghost, at least. How does it feel to you, though? You feeling any steadier now?”

Methos gave a shaky laugh. “Much,” he said. “Thank you. And I’m sorry.” He waved a hand at Joe’s Santa suit. “This was probably the last reaction you were expecting.”

“Well, let’s just say it wasn’t in my top ten,” Joe agreed. “Want to tell me what happened? I didn’t think Immortals *had* fainting spells.”

“They don’t. It wasn’t a fainting spell, Joe,” Methos answered. He looked thoughtful. “Actually, I think ‘sudden personal epiphany’ is probably the best way to sum it up.”

Joe hid a smile. “Well, those can certainly be a real bitch, all right,” he agreed, perfectly deadpan. “Want to tell me about yours?” 

“I’ll do my best. Though it might take me a minute to figure out exactly how to explain.” Methos paused for a moment, clearly planning out what to say. Then he spoke softly, in the tones of one making a deep confession. “I got lost, you see.”

Joe looked at him blankly. “Lost?”

“Lost.”

“Lost. We talking spiritually? Or physically?”

“The latter. Though I suppose the former also applies,” Methos said. “But no, I mean that I got literally, physically lost, while I was on my way to get the Chinese food tonight. I think I must have taken a wrong turn on Albuquerque Drive.” 

Joe couldn’t help it. He tried to hide his chuckle the same he’d suppressed his smile earlier, but it escaped anyway. Methos eyed him sardonically. “Yes, fine, go ahead and laugh,” he said mildly. “It’s funny *now*. I’ll be laughing at myself in another five minutes. But at the time—well. It just made me realize how little this place still feels like home. Even after all these months, there are still so many streets I don’t know by name, so many places where I can still get turned around. And *that*…” Methos sighed. “That made me think about all the other places I’ve been a stranger in. The ones I worked so hard to make into a home, only to have to begin again someplace else. By the time I’d found my way to the restaurant and gotten our food, I’d managed to work myself into quite the rabid state of self-pity. You know. The kind it usually takes a whole bottle of scotch to subdue?”

“Oh, yeah,” Joe said feelingly. “I know the kind. Some of mine used to take a whole case, not just a bottle.”

“Exactly.” Methos nodded. “Well, I wasn’t quite that far gone, but it was a close-run thing.” His fingers started skating lightly over the edge of Joe’s jacket hem. “I even allowed myself several moments of complete misery just because I couldn’t find your Santa suit when we unpacked the boxes earlier. I thought we’d lost it…misplaced it somehow in the move…”

“You did?” Joe frowned for a moment, wondering just how his curious lover could have gotten that idea. Then he smiled. “Nah. It wasn’t lost. I just hid it away in the bedroom quick when the Sprout came, so she wouldn’t get her hands on it and insist on making me model it for her. You know what she’s like.” 

“Oh, lord.” Methos dropped his head backward, groaning softly. “Yes, I know. Good thinking. I’m glad you acted so quickly. Otherwise, it could have been…uncomfortable.” Joe nodded his hearty agreement. Methos straightened up. “Well. There I was, with a car full of Chinese food and a case of brooding depression even MacLeod could have been proud to call his own. The fogs we used to get in London couldn’t have been any murkier than my mood. I just kept thinking, over and over again, about how difficult everything in life is, how futile, how lonely. And then—“ Methos shrugged, giving Joe a shy, tiny smile. “Then, I came home. And here you were. And suddenly it dawned on me. For the first time since I left the Horseman—the first time in more than 2,000 years, Jobey—I wasn’t alone when I started a new life. You were here with me.” Methos gestured sheepishly down his body. “So. Hence, the fainting-damsel act. It was all a little much to take in at once.”

“Well, that would do it,” Joe murmured. Very moved, he leaned over to capture his beloved’s lips in a tender kiss. As he did, he mentally ransacked everything he knew about Methos’s history…could it be true? Of all Methos’s mortal and Immortal loves, could he really be the first one since the late Bronze Age to stay with him through a change in identity? It didn’t take much reflection for Joe to realize that he was. God. No wonder the poor bastard had been completely undone. “I guess it’s been a lonely sort of day for both of us,” he said thoughtfully, when the kiss had ended. “That’s why I was thinking it would be good for Santa to visit. But it will only take me a few minutes to change clothes. We can eat the Chinese food, watch some TV…”

“Oh no, don’t do that.” Methos scooted over on the couch, taking Joe’s hand and gently placing it over his groin. “I think at least one part of me reacted more or less *exactly* as planned.” 

Joe’s eyes widened. Despite Methos’s emotional distress, his cock was hard, deliciously plump and swollen under the denim of his jeans. Joe’s fingers instantly wanted nothing more than to touch and tease that hardness, and he had to forcefully restrain himself from doing so—now was not the moment. He contented himself with a quick squeeze and pulled away. “Tell you what,” he said huskily. “You go put the food in the fridge. I’ll dim the lights and double check the blinds. Then we can meet back here and try this again.”

“Yes.” It was indescribable, the look Methos gave him then. Pure love, pure trust, and a hearty helping of lust, so overwhelming it made something deep in Joe quiver as if his stomach really was Santa Clause’s great bowl of jelly. Methos gave Joe’s coat a last lingering stroke and hurried away.

So. Try number two. Joe swallowed hard and got back to work, doing his best to reset the scene and re-establish the mood. He left everything in the living room as it was before, with the exception of the lights. Bright spotlighting was no longer necessary; his lover’s sense of sight had already been well and truly catered to. Joe turned off everything but the Christmas tree lights, letting them add their color to the flickering light from the fire, and then he took his place back in the armchair. He had just gotten comfortably settled when Methos re-entered the room. Whereupon Joe discovered that his uses for the sense of sight had yet to be exhausted.

It was indescribable, really. Methos hadn’t changed his appearance greatly. Apart from ridding himself of the battered food cartons and taking off his coat, he looked exactly as he’d looked two minutes ago. He was wearing the same jeans, the same hiking boots, and the same tight grey t-shirt, for once mercifully free of humorous slogans. And yet everything, *everything*, about him was different. 

It was the way he moved, mostly. Methos entered the room powerfully, taking long, certain strides, hips fluid and sensual despite the bulge Joe could see tenting his pants. This wasn’t the shy and geeky Adam Pierson. This wasn’t even the much more confident, professional Dr. Alex Porter. This was Joe’s very own Methos, as comfortable in his skin as a prowling jaguar, and so sexual he could have given a statue an erection. He walked to edge of the room and stood there silently, letting Joe look his fill. Joe did, knowing that Methos was looking him over too, feeling the hot gaze travelling over every inch of his costume and face. Joe waited, letting the tension between them crackle and build. When he finally met Methos’s eye the air was practically snapping with electricity. “Santa,” Methos greeted. 

“Methos.” Joe savored the word. There weren’t many occasions, now, when it was completely safe for him to say it. Time for the ritual question. “Have you been good this year?” 

Much to Joe’s surprise, this question caused an instant change of mood. A hint of self-consciousness suddenly crept into Methos’s body language, rounding his shoulders and dropping his head. The proud jaguar vanished, replaced by…well, it was still Joe’s Methos. But a far less confident version. “I rather think that’s up to you, Santa.” 

“Is it, now?” Joe asked. “Well, let me think about it for a minute. Review the case.” He waited a few heartbeats, frowning in mock-seriousness, before he let himself smile. “Yeah. Yeah, I think you’ve been good, Methos. Very good.” Joe purred the last two words, using his voice like the fine instrument it was, and saw Methos close his eyes to drink it in. Yes. Time to make the most of his lover’s sense of hearing, too. “*Very, very* good,” Joe repeated one more time, and watched Methos shiver slightly. It was almost as if the syllables had become tangible, dancing over his skin as surely and intimately as Joe intended to touch him later with his hands. Joe stood up, spreading his arms wide. “Come on, then,” he invited. “I know you want to.” 

Instantly Methos crossed the room, stripping off his t-shirt as he went. A moment later and he was standing with his naked chest pressed tightly to Joe’s velvet coat, nose and mouth both buried in Joe’s shoulder, taking in deep, gulping breaths of fragrant velvet and faux fur. Joe smiled—it appeared that scent and touch were well accounted for now, too—and noted the almost desperate way Methos was pressing against his back. More frantic than sexual, it was almost like the Immortal was doing his best to press his way inside Joe’s skin. Joe reached up over his shoulder, comfortingly stroking the Immortal’s dark hair. “Did you really think I’d allow this to be lost?” he asked.

“Wasn’t sure,” came the muted reply. “After I teased you about wearing the hat for me earlier, I went looking for the costume in the boxes. And when I couldn’t find it, I thought…well.” Shaky breath. “In the last year, we’ve given up our jobs, our friends, our country. Even our names have changed. Why not this, as well?”

“Hmmm.” Joe shook his head thoughtfully. “I think there’s a flaw in your logic somewhere, Methos. But just for now, I don’t want to spend time trying to find it. I’d rather go straight to fucking you senseless. And so…” He twisted around in Methos’s arms and pulled him in for a kiss--a hot, hungry, possessive sort of kiss, one in which Joe allowed Methos no say whatsoever. He simply held him still while he exercised his dominance, plundering the Immortal mouth with equal parts passion and love, doing his best to communicate both his need and his approval with his tongue and lips. He was successful enough that by the time he’d finished they were both flushed, aroused, and panting. “Enough,” Joe said as he stepped back, voice gentle but firm. “Go stand by the fireplace—front to fire, back to the room. And take off your boots and socks before you do.”

If Joe could wear a red velvet suit to indulge Methos’s fetishes, then surely there was no crime in having Methos indulge one of his. And Joe had a *major* fetish for Methos wearing nothing but a pair of jeans, barefoot and shirtless and with the tight denim clinging to every curve of ass and thigh. There was something about the costume that made Methos look even more deliciously naked than he did when he was nude, and Joe made the most of it, running his fingers down every long, lovely muscle on the Immortal’s back before dropping his lips to his shoulder. He kissed his way down Methos’s arm, savoring the different textures like a banquet—from the firm curve of the shoulder to the ticklish silky skin hidden inside the elbow, then finally to the fine sprinkling of hair covering his forearms, so masculine it made Joe’s mouth water. Joe lingered there for a while, tracing the strong muscles that lay between elbow and wrist over and over again with his lips, until Methos made a low whimper of protest. His hips had started twisting restlessly. “Thought you wanted to go straight to fucking me senseless,” he murmured. 

Joe chuckled softly. “In a hurry for that, are we?” he said, and punctuated the words with a gentle bite to the inside of his lover’s elbow. This time, Methos’s whimper was more of a groan. “Don’t worry, Methos. We’ll get there. I just want to have a good time playing with you, first.” He straightened up and slipped his arms around Methos’s waist, undoing the Immortal’s zipper. It only took him moments to peel the tight denim down and push the familiar soft cotton boxers out of the way. And fuck, there it was at last—the sweet, hard, juicy length of his lover’s cock nestled just where it should be, cradled oh-so-rightly in Joe’s right palm. “I have just one rule for you tonight,” Joe murmured, beginning a gentle pump. “Just one—but it’s important. No coming until I say you can.” 

This provoked another wordless, protesting groan from Methos, followed very shortly by some groaning, protesting words. “And there was me thinking that Santa Clause was supposed to be a *giving* figure, Joe. Where’s your holiday spirit?”

“Smart ass.” Joe punctuated the words by using his free hand to give Methos’s very fine, blue-jean covered ass a sharp smack. The Immortal jumped a little, cock giving a tell-tale little twitch in Joe’s hand. Then he sighed and relaxed, rubbing his ass against Joe’s hip in silent invitation. Joe answered it by rubbing the small hurt away, even as his front hand resumed its rhythmic explorations. “I *am* being generous,” he said. “It’s what you need—to put yourself entirely in my hands. Or don’t you remember the first time we ever did this?” 

“Well, I’m not really certain, Joe. I might need some help to remember…ouch!” This impertinence had earned the Immortal another smack. He jumped again, then collapsed with arms resting on the mantle, laughing shakily. “God, Joe. I’m surprised you even need to ask. Do you think I could ever forget?”

Joe nodded; it had been a silly thing to ask. Some things emblazoned themselves even into an Immortal memory with a vividness no time could erase. “Tell me.”

“What I remember? I’m not sure I can. It’s not that I can’t recall. I’m just not sure I can find the words…” Another smack, one that made the Immortal’s hips thrust sharply into Joe’s hand with an incredible surge of erotic need, seemed to encourage him. Methos fought to master himself, both his body and his breath, and finally succeeded enough to speak softly. “You told me to lick your boots.”

“Yeah.” Joe’s words were more growl than speech; Methos wasn’t the only one having a hard time keeping his arousal under control. “That’s right. I did. And?”

“And…it was perfect.” There wasn’t even a hint of smart-assy-ness left in the Immortal’s tone now. Just awe, and something very much like reverence. “Everything I’d ever wanted, everything I’d ever been afraid to ask you for. Just to be at your feet like that. Knowing that you wanted me there, that it was finally all right…” He shook his head softly. “I can still taste the leather in my mouth if I concentrate, you know. I still do sometimes, when it’s the middle of the night and I don’t want to wake you up, but I still need to come hard.”

“Fuck.” Joe couldn’t help it. Quite without his permission, his hand tightened on Methos’s cock and began working him rapidly, making both of them cry out. It took every ounce of self-control Joe had to slow down again. For a moment, he’d been so fired by the Immortal’s words that all he wanted to do was finish him off right then and there. It would probably have finished him, too; Joe was more than aroused enough for the mere sight and feel of Methos’s orgasm to put him over the edge. But he gentled his hand, shifting to caresses that were more soothing than arousing, until they both had calmed. “Fuck,” he said again, much more quietly, when he had. “I didn’t know that.”

“I know.”

“I—“ Joe paused. He wanted to say that anytime Methos felt such a need, he should wake Joe up and let him take care of it. He really wanted it to be true. But Joe was self-honest enough to admit that there really were times when sleep was his top priority—there had to be, he was only human. Hell, there had been plenty of times when Methos had been extra worried or extra tired and Joe had chosen not to awaken *him*, preferring to slip off quietly into the bathroom and take care of his needs himself. It was just one of those sad but true facts of married life. One couldn’t always be there for one’s partner, no matter how badly one wanted to. But—Joe slid his free hand down the back of Methos’s jeans, cupping one firm buttock with care. “I’m awake now.”

Methos closed his eyes, pressing needily back into Joe’s hand. “Yes.”

“And I still have the boots. I’m wearing them.”

Joe couldn’t quite make out Methos’s response. The Immortal’s entire body had shuddered, and the erotic feeling of that beautiful ass shaking in his hand was distracting enough to make Joe miss the whispered words. But he was fairly sure another whispered “Yessss” was in there somewhere. Joe surrendered both cock and ass, giving each a farewell caress. “You won’t have to imagine anything tonight,” he promised. “Come on. I think it’s time we moved this into the bedroom.”

***

The change of location hadn’t really been necessary. With the door locked, the blinds securely drawn, and their curious little Pixie safely at home in her own bed, there was no reason why they couldn’t have made love in their living room. But Joe had wanted the deeper intimacy that moving from a semi-public space to a completely private one would bring. And now, having seen the eager, completely abandoned way that Methos had thrown himself on the floor at his feet the moment Joe sat down on their bed, Joe was glad for another reason. The floor in the living room was hard Mexican tile, but the bedroom was carpeted. Methos probably wouldn’t have winced at the hard living room floor scraping up his knees. But Joe most certainly would have. 

He watched now as Methos hungrily licked and sucked at his boot toes. Sweet forbidden thrills of pleasure ran from the tips of his thighs high up into his spine, causing Joe to wonder--probably for the thousandth time--just why indulging this kink of Methos’s should be so erotic for him, as well. After all, it wasn’t as if he even had feet inside those boots, not anymore. Having Methos so enthusiastically worshipping what Joe no longer had should have been mildly creepy at best. And a heartbreaking reminder of what he’d lost at the worst. 

And maybe it would have been, if any eyes but theirs had seen. But alone, it was actually as sexy as hell. Methos feasted on him, tongue licking out in hot wet circles over the shiny patent leather. And if there were no flesh-and-blood toes underneath to feel the pressure, well, you never would have known that way from the way Joe’s hips squirmed. Joe let them both just experience it for a while. Then he used his hands to gently pull his foot away. “That’s enough now,” he commanded tenderly. “Come here and rest for a minute.” Methos did as he asked, crawling forward to lay his head on Joe’s knee, chest swelling with his panted breaths. Joe stroked the dark hair soothingly. “I remember things too, you know.”

Methos’s voice was muffled. His nose was pressed into the velvet covering Joe’s knee. “You do?”

“I do.” Joe nodded, hands still stroking Methos’s hair. “I remember all about *this* of course…god, the way it felt, having you at my feet like that. Shocked the hell out of me, just how hard watching you made me. It still does.” Methos’s hand started creeping up his thigh, clearly wanting to reach for Joe’s erection but already in far too submissive a state to simply grab for it. Joe smiled and moved the Immortal’s hand where he wanted, letting Methos cup him gently through the bright red velvet. “But mostly I think about what happened after that.”

“After?”

“After.” Joe nodded. “When you were shaking so hard that I knew I had to do something to make you stop. That’s the memory that makes *me* come, when I’m by myself in the middle of the night. As I recall, all I did was ask you to stand up, so I could undo your pants and stroke you ‘til you came.” He shivered softly. “But the way you felt in my hands—god. You were so fucking hard—yeah, even harder than you are right now. And so damned sensitive, too. I remember thinking that it was like your whole body was about to break into pieces with every touch…”

Methos let his hand drop away from Joe’s groin. His eyes were very dark. “It was.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I know.” Joe laughed ruefully. “I remember wanting so bad to take you in my mouth. I knew we’d gone someplace new together, and I wanted to see what you tasted like, when you were feeling something that deep. I was sure it would be different. But I couldn’t stop looking in your eyes. Somehow, I knew that I had to be looking at you when you came, to hold you together with my eyes as you broke apart. Otherwise, I might not have gotten you back.” 

For a long time, Methos was silent. Then he said, very softly, “Taste me now?” 

“Hmmm. Well, that is an idea.” Joe closed his hand over the Immortal’s bare shoulder, giving an insistent tug upward. Methos rose instantly and moved slightly to Joe’s side, hands attempting to force his still-open jeans zipper even further apart as he mutely offered himself. Joe licked his lips, teasingly, and was very amused to see Methos sway slightly, eyes instantly locked on Joe’s mouth. But Joe pulled back. “Nuh-uh,” he said firmly, shaking his head. “No. I have something better in mind.”

“Joe?”

“I made you a promise earlier, Methos. It’s time I started making it happen.” He dropped his hand to Immortal’s groin, rubbing the flat of his palm over Methos’s erection pointedly. “Take off the rest of your clothes,” he said. “Then go get the lube and join me back here on the bed. I want you face down on your belly across my lap.”

Methos’s eyes went almost comically wide, but he nodded instantly, murmuring “Yes, Joe,” in a quiet but decidedly “oh fuck, this is turning me on” kind of way. He hurried off to their walk-in closet, already pushing the jeans off his hips as he went. 

The second Methos reappeared, Joe had a minor epiphany of his own. Yes, he would always find the sight of Methos clad in nothing but a pair of jeans to be extremely erotic. But it was nothing compared to the sight of his lover’s body now, completely naked and gleaming softly in the low bedroom light. The Immortal arranged himself gingerly across Joe’s lap, barely suppressing a groan when his cock brushed velvet and fur. Joe held still and let him place himself as he would, though he spread his thighs wide enough give Methos’s erection plenty of room. When the Immortal was finally settled, the most perfect ass in the world was spread across Joe’s lap, utterly beautiful…and utterly tempting. “Remember. The no-coming rule still applies,” he whispered. Then he lubed up his hands and got to work.

Every now and then, Joe had to wonder what the 17 year old Joe Dawson--football quarterback, Homecoming King, and ever so sweetly unconscious and secure in his heterosexuality--would have said if he’d known that, forty years later, he would find so much pleasure in touching another man’s asshole. Pleasure it most definitely was; Joe found fingering Methos’s ass almost as satisfying as fucking him with his cock. His hands seemed to crave the sensations, the way the silky skin fluttered as he moved in slow teasing circles over the outer rim, then the heat and incredible living elasticity as he gently pressed one finger inside. “Mmmm. Yeah, that’s good,” Joe murmured approvingly, expertly riding the swells of his lover’s hips as Methos tried hard not to thrust into his lap. “I think you like this. Like having me inside you.”

“Yes, Joe.” The words were breathy. Joe rewarded him with staccato thrust of his finger, the movement sharp. He knew that if he crooked his knuckle just so he would find Methos’s inner pleasure spot, and the beautiful body would shudder with passion from head to toe. But for the moment it was perfect just like this: keeping his finger straight as a rod and letting Methos writhe around it, touching him so intimately and yet with that final intimacy still awaiting. He stayed motionless until Methos stilled as well, then began a slow, subtle, in-and-out fuck, feeling the smoother inner walls slide along his fingertip like silk. “Are you ready for more?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know,” was the shaky answer. “God, Joe, I have no idea. It’s so good already. Just…don’t ask me. Don’t make me decide…”

“No,” Joe said, understanding completely. “I’ll decide for you, love.” He carefully added another finger, a bit startled when Methos’s body didn’t instantly stretch to accept him—hmm. Well, Joe knew how to cope with that. He withdrew his fingers and urged Methos up off his lap, gently guiding him until the Immortal was standing with his hands braced against the wall. Joe sat down on the bed directly behind him. “Looks like I’m going to get to taste you, after all,” he murmured. Then he leaned forward, so he could begin kissing and licking Methos’s asshole to his heart’s content. 

Methos stood it for several minutes. Then, he began making a high pitched keening sound, which in anyone else would have meant orgasm was mere heartbeats away. Joe knew he wouldn’t climax just yet, however. Methos’s sexual control absolute, honed over thousands of years of playing these games with much harsher masters than Joe could ever be. Joe knew he could do anything he wanted, and it would simply drive his lover higher. He gave him a long, sweeping lick from scrotum to tailbone. Then he made an “o” with his lips and pressed them to the quivering ring in front of him, tongue flickering out to wetly slip inside.

Methos’s voice cut off in mid keen, replaced by a startled, grunting “uh! uh!” sound. It was mindless and uncontrollable, in the perfect rhythm of a man riding out the penultimate moments of a particularly overwhelming fuck. Joe took the hint. He played for just a few more moments, continuing with his quest to turn his lover’s ass into his own personal wet, pliant playground. Then he replaced his tongue with his fingers, both startled and pleased when Methos’s asshole immediately sucked in four with no apparent difficulty, except for one sharp, startled cry. “Joe! Santa…Joe…”

“Shhh. Gently, now. Easy.” Joe pulled back, leaving just one finger inside. He laid his other hand gently over the finely-crafted spine. “There. That’s better. Methos, I want you to listen to me now, listen to me very carefully. Can you do that?”

His answer was a frantic nod. “Good,” Joe crooned. “Good. I’m very pleased. In a few moments, I’m going to give you all my fingers back, and I’m going to fuck you with them—fuck you just as hard as I know how, hard enough to make you come. I *will* let you come then, and it will be sweeter than you can possibly guess. But first, I need to correct something you said earlier. Do you think you can listen?” There was another frantic nod. Joe stood up, carefully keeping his hand in Methos’s ass, and bent low over Methos’s back so the Immortal could hear his voice right in his ear. “Good. Listen to me then, and remember. You asked me why this wouldn’t change, when everything else in our lives already has. Well, I finally have an answer for you, and it’s simple. *This* doesn’t change. *We* don’t change. No matter where we live or which names we happen to be using. Do you understand?”

Methos didn’t answer in words. But he turned his head, looking down over his shoulder at Joe incredulously, and the expression in his eyes left no room for misinterpretation. “Yeah,” Joe said gutturally, overwhelmed. “Yeah, you do. All right, then. Take my fingers; take as many as you want. Santa’s going to fuck you now, so damn hard. You can come, anytime—“ And he shoved his fingers in roughly, using all the strength in his formidable forearms.

In. In. In. Suddenly everything in the world took second place to that rhythm, Joe fucking his mate with brutal force. There were sounds…Methos’s high-pitched cries as he rocked back to meet Joe’s thrusts, Joe’s grunts of satisfaction mixed with swearwords and crude commands for his lover to “come on, damnit”…and there were sensations…heat and slick lube and dripping sweat and needy flesh that alternately tried to resist Joe’s hand and then pull him in deeper. There were scents, too, sweat and lube and the musky odor of need, so thick Joe could practically taste it on his tongue. But it all took a back seat to that rhythm, that pulse, that constant pounding of Joe’s hand into his lover’s body. It was rough, it was harsh, it was merciless, it was…love, in its most basic form. Exactly what they both needed, and Joe gloried both in giving it to Methos and taking it for himself. And taking it. And taking it some more…

Even when he felt Methos go absolutely rigid and scream out his climax, Joe didn’t stop. He just kept his hand in place, pressing on inner spots he now knew better than any instrument he’d ever played, wringing spike after spike off pleasure out of his beloved until the Immortal collapsed against the wall, utterly spent. Silence fell. Joe stayed where he was. He didn’t know how he knew, but somehow he did know, that pulling out his fingers too soon would be disastrous, would leave Methos feeling both abandoned and betrayed. It was far better to stay like this, motionless but still connected, until his lover gave him the signal to pull away. Joe began gently stroking Methos’s spine with his free hand, murmuring soft words of love and encouragement. He knew that was what it would take to gently call his love back into his body. 

Even so, it seemed to take a long time for Methos to return. The sweat on his skin quickly turned from warm to chill. Joe was just trying to figure out if he could reach Cousin Maggie’s hideous orange afghan at the foot of the bed and drape it over Methos one-handed when the Immortal finally stirred. He gingerly pulled himself off Joe’s fingers, but then—instead of stretching lazily and giving Joe the ‘mmmm, *good*’ grin that always told Joe their play had ended—he gracefully turned around. His eyes would not meet Joe’s, but he put his hands on Joe’s still costumed shoulders, fingers sinking deeply into the plush red velvet. “Methos?” Joe asked.

No answer. But the strong arms, still trembling subtly from the force of what Methos had just experienced, gently pushed Joe backward. Joe suddenly found himself lying on his back across the mattress. The costume jacket and trousers were carefully moved away. Then a naked Immortal was on the bed with him, carefully straddling Joe’s hips. “Wait, Methos, no,” Joe said, horrified as he suddenly realized what his lover meant to do. “You don’t have to…I don’t need…”

But he did need. The lie was made obvious the second Methos eased his ass down over him. God *yes*, Joe needed to be inside his lover, needed to be *buried* in him when he came…and apparently Methos needed it, too. He finally met Joe’s eyes as he sank down, and suddenly Joe saw Methos’s own need there—saw it, and understood, with a clarity that broke his heart. “Don’t ride,” he said thickly. “I don’t care how fast you heal, you can’t help but be sore for a little while after that pounding I just gave you, and I won’t hurt you like that. Just be still…oh, god, just hold still…”

And Methos obeyed. He just knelt over Joe’s body with Joe’s cock sheathed inside him, face blissful, eyes telling him that this was *exactly* what he needed to be complete. And that was all Joe needed, too. He came, and came, and kept on coming until he felt Methos suddenly clamp down on him in a second dry orgasm of his own. Then Joe passed out cold.

***

Admittedly, Joe’s experience in these things was still rather limited. But he’d always gotten the impression that it should be at least a *little* embarrassing, passing out when you were the nominal top in a domination scene. 

Fortunately, Methos didn’t seem to hold it against him. 

Joe came to rather dreamily to find Methos gently helping him out of his costume. He stayed still on the bed, happily ensconced in afterglow, while Methos stripped off his boots, pants and legs; Methos gave the boots an extremely fond pat before he sat them on a chair. He walked into the bathroom and returned with a warm, wet cloth, and Joe could see that Methos’s body had returned to its normal, everyday, relaxed posture. Well, maybe there was a hint of a satisfied swagger in there, too. But even that was pretty normal for Methos. Joe closed his eyes briefly, enjoying the sensation of Methos cleaning him—oh yes, there were definite advantages to being the top—and then finally looked into his lover’s eyes when he joined Joe on the bed. “Mmmm, good?” Joe asked.

“Mmmmm. Excellent,” was Methos’s contented answer. 

Joe grinned. He’d done his job well.

They snuggled together for a while, relaxed and happy, until Methos yawned and spoke. “Jobey...”

So. He was Jobey, now. Not Santa, not Joe. They really were back in the real world. It made Joe a little sad, but not overly so. Now that he’d had enough of a break to get some perspective, he could see that they were once again making their real world into a very fine place. “Yes, Alex?”

“We’d better make sure we get the come out of the Santa suit before the Pixie finds it.”

Joe snickered happily. “She’s not going to find it,” he said. “I’d already made up my mind to store it in the basement safe. Some holiday activities have to be for grown-ups only.” Methos mumbled a hearty assent and wrapped his arm around Joe still tighter, tucking his head under Joe’s chin. Jos smiled and started stroking his back. “We’ll just have to get the Sprout her own Santa, I guess,” he said. “I saw this great display at the garden center yesterday. Six foot tall plastic St. Nicks.” He felt Methos go rigid under his hand and grinned at the ceiling as he continued. “No, really, I’m serious. You inflate one with a bicycle pump and then tether it to the lawn. The Sprout will love it.”

Methos lifted his head to stare at Joe. “Let me get this straight,” he said. “It’s not enough that I have jingle bells on my front door, dancing polar bears in my living room, and paper chains hanging from every ceiling. You also want to put a Santa on my lawn. A six foot tall, inflatable phallic symbol?”

“He’s only a phallic symbol to *you*,” Joe answered. “To the rest of the world he’s just a jolly old elf, innocent bringer of presents and cheer. It’s not *my* fault you can’t walk by a man in a red suit without getting an erection.”

Methos’s mouth worked soundlessly for second, no words coming out. Finally, he managed: “I think you’re at least partially responsible for that, Jobey.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

“Am not,” Joe answered, grinning like a loon and not caring in the least that he was arguing like a five-year-old. He was forced to stop there, however, because Methos decided to make his own foray into childish behavior. He snatched the belly-pillow from the Santa costume off the floor and starting hitting Joe with it. Joe laughed aloud, trying to shield his face and shoulders from the mock-blows. Then he grabbed another pillow and started fighting back, giving a joyful belly laugh that would have rivaled St. Nick’s own.

It was the first Christmas of their new life. And all was right with world.

The End

**Author's Note:**

> This is an edited, streamlined version of the story originally posted to my LJ in 2013.


End file.
